


Monday evening fever dreams

by Eturnis cursed works (Eturni)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Asphyxiation, Aziraphale's Flaming Sword, Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Choking, Crack, Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Domestic Fluff, Edgeplay, Hand Jobs, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Not quite sex with snake form Crowley, Other, Prehensile Penis, Safewords, Sentient Bookshop (Good Omens), Smut, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Surgery, Surgery Gone Wrong, Vore, angels don't need to breathe but, atrocious health and safety, brief bdsm mentions, eldritch horror forms, knife play if you squint, non-consensual barbarism, non-human intimacy, plague mentions, pranks with books, pranks with fire, very unsanitary conditions, what would truly disgust Hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturnis%20cursed%20works
Summary: I can no longer post these as separate works and run the risk of them outnumbering . A collection of shorts on Mondays for prompts from the seemingly banal to the downright bizarre. All of which will be made into crackfic.Crowley's snake form is a constrictor. He gets the wrong idea when Aziraphale gives him a particularly strong hug and Crowley response in kind. To a degree. What Crowley would not expect is for Aziraphale to perhaps like that sort of thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 106





	1. Aziraphale is less a snack than a whole meal

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please read the tags. They'll be added on to for every chapter but also I will try to warn individually for them.

There were a few people in existence who knew Crowley well, perhaps two of which Crowley could stand for more than a few minutes. As such it would be surprising to all but the closest few of Crowley’s acquaintances that his serpentine aspects, which were generally under control, did tend to rear themselves at some less than opportune moments.

For example.

Different types of snakes had very different ways of dealing with their prey. For Crowley, for whatever reason, it was constriction.

This had never been much of a problem: few people got close enough to the demon for it to become any sort of a problem. Even after the world didn’t end he and Aziraphale kept a strange sort of distance between them. A gentle hand to the shoulder every now and then, the almost guilty brush of fingers to put hair back in its place, a cautious kiss that still seemed to fear they were watched. They were free and still so stuck in old fears and patterns.

Until Crowley brought Aziraphale crepes from the Breizh café on the anniversary of the Bastille incident.

Aziraphale’s eyes had welled up, just a little, and he had carefully plucked the package from Crowley’s hands to set aside before enveloping the demon in an almost bone-crushing hug. Arms trapped by his sides. Raised from the floor. Arms ever tighter.

The slits of Crowley’s pupils flared, the demon moving on instinct as he reared back and slammed his forehead into Aziraphale’s nose.

The angel dropped him with a shout caught between pain and surprise. Crowley stood across from Aziraphale, chest heaving and eyes wild as some higher function in his brain tried desperately to calm him down and make him recognise what was happening. Where he was. Who he was With.

“Ah, my dear I’m so- what did I-?” Aziraphale dazedly tried to calm the snake demon down and process what had happened.

It didn’t help that he could barely get the words out around the stutter in his chest and the warmth pooling in his gut as he met Crowley’s eyes and found the other watching him like he was trying to assess if the angel was predator or prey. “My dear?” He reached out, tentative, and flinched away when Crowley’s reaction was to lunge towards him.

Too late.

In a moment there were hands constricting Aziraphale’s throat, pressing down against the windpipe in an almost-frenzy. The clouded, feral look didn’t abate at all as Crowley watched the angel go carefully still against his hands as though considering his next move.

All it did was give Crowley time to shift atoms away from his usual corporeal form and into his proper demonic form. He was already winding his way around Aziraphale as his legs decided they were no longer needed. The angel let loose a slight whimper as Crowley’s body climbed and wound around and _crushed_ his body. Crowley could feel him going more pliant underneath him and felt something pleasurable slip down his own spine as he wrapped possessively around the other’s entire body.

He undulated his body as he realised that he could feel something stiff against his sensitive underbelly. His prey whimpered but it wasn’t fear or pain. It was something that made parts of Crowley’s body awaken and open. It was a noise that called back the demon that should be in control of his own vessel.

“Angel? I- sssorr-”

“No! Please. Please don’t stop. Oh Crowley, please, _fuck_.” The words were gasped out through lungs under almost too much pressure to form words the human way, the hands scrabbling around his scales in a desperation that Crowley was understanding more with every second that passed.

He shifted until he could pin Aziraphale with unblinking eyes, watching the pleasure flit across the angel’s face as his chest heaved and his sensitive nipples brushed against unyielding demon flesh. Crowley was honestly a little surprised to only just now realise that Aziraphale had rid himself of his clothes at some point in this.

He watched every micro-expression that flitted across Aziraphale’s face with a singular intensity as he tightened further and further.

Finally, Aziraphale went still. There was a half second of panic in which Crowley fought his reptile brain; terrified that he had actually done irreparable damage to the other’s corporation until he heard another gentle whimper as he moved to release the angel, cock leaking insistent and needy against his scales.

In a moment the snake was back in control and unhinging his jaw, almost gently scooping the lower jaw under feet before starting the slow process of swallowing Aziraphale whole. He could feel the body in his mouth shiver in anticipation as he climbed up to thighs. A strangled cry as he pressed his way up Aziraphale’s dick and swallowed it with the rest. A low noise of satisfied pleasure as he was finally completely engulfed in Crowley’s form.

He felt full; contented wrapped around his angel and feeling the other struggle desperately inside of him. It made his cloaca ache with need.

Aziraphale struggled and Crowley shifted a little to get comfortable and suddenly there was a low, keening cry that he could feel as a rumble through his body as his stomach was filled up with more liquid. If he listened closely enough he swore he could hear half-groaning sobs.

It took barely more than a thought and a blink to have Aziraphale outside of him and cleaned up. Crowley lazily wound about Aziraphale despite the throbbing need in his core as the angel’s breath hitched at being wrapped up once again. “Don’t worry angel, you’re ssssafe with me.” Crowley chuckled, lazy on the sibilance as his body hummed with satisfaction at Aziraphale’s dazed expression. They’d have to talk about doing something similar again some time.


	2. Wrapped in light and sung to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eldritch horror forms.
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale relax in the South Downs by shedding their mortal forms for the day and doing what they enjoy most: reading and basking in warmth. It slowly transforms into something more intimate that results in the blesssing of most of the county.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I... don't know _what_ this is? I think it's probably smut-adjacent but luckily that's already covered in the rating. I love eldritch horror stuff and true forms so I hope my aim at something truly incomprehensible to the human mind really hits it's mark.
> 
> The Enochian was made here: https://lingojam.com/GlitchTextGenerator

The end of the world had been a surprisingly nice affair, all things considered. Aziraphale had been given a whole new corporation out of the deal and finally, _finally,_ he had been able to declare how very much on Crowley’s side he was. In hindsight, forgetting as much of the horror of it as possible, it was almost a fond memory.

It gave the both of them freedom beyond anything they’d experienced before. Currently, they were using that freedom to spool around each other behind the closed curtains of their South Downs cottage.

With all of the windows carefully covered inside of their own shared space Aziraphale and Crowley occasionally felt able to shed their physical corporations and spend time in each others’ presence without the restrictions of mortal boundaries.

Currently Aziraphale was reading. A hazy-edged ball of holy light shot through with threads of ever-shifting lines of knowledge in scripts that no longer existed and coded in emotion, memory and any number of ways that couldn’t be held in mortal minds. The outside of him was dotted with dozens upon dozens of eyes. This only served to allow Aziraphale to have a strategic set up of about ten books that he eagerly devoured.

Crowley had made himself smaller, curled in a tight coil of dark matter in the seat below the angel. He had started the day napping, basking in the heat that Aziraphale exuded naturally.

As he woke he slowly started to rise up and into the sparks of light above. The density of dark matter gave way to the wavering heaviness of a star about to be born and eventually settled into something of the cold vastness of space.

As he passed into the space Aziraphale occupied, the angel sang in a low hum that shuddered along Crowley’s whole form as a caress. Crowley lengthened and opened up inside of his angel; basking in holy light that should, by every right, burn him entire. Instead it woke places inside of him that responded eagerly and formed the shapes of constellations and nebulae, adding light and colour to the shape of him.

Aziraphale responded in kind, the books he held by sheer force of will descending to the floor as he accepted the intrusion of his dearest hereditary enemy. The soft hum of Enochian song pitching into something almost fevered as Crowley continued to shift inside his edges. Somewhere in the centre of it all a switch seemed to flicker in the angel; meaningless song pitching up to invocation and ending with a thrum of power that would leave minor blessings on every human in the South-Eastern counties.

Crowley shuddered almost into inexistence at the force of the angel’s overwhelming tremor of power. The lights in him winked out one by one, encompassed by the solar flare that was his Aziraphale, leaving only the bare shadowed void of him behind.

Stripped back to his essential aspects and laid bare before his angel, Crowley could only allow himself to be overtaken by a deluge of sensation too intense and alien for any mortal to withstand without breaking. It was a close enough call for Crowley; who was all nerve endings on fire and panting desperation without the lungs to actually heave any air in.

“Y̴̦͑̑͒̈́͌̓o̶̡̽͂ͅũ̶̡̻͇̦͖͗͗͂͆'̴̜̜͎̠̼̻̔̊͐͒͝r̸̗̋ę̷̛̱͙̦̣̿̿̿͛ ̴̧̛̟̻̘̻͌̍́͆͜͝d̸̛̙͚̜̤͇̝͗̾̔͜ö̷̰̹́͐̓̈́͂ȋ̷̠̗͈̲̯̺̔̊̎͝͠n̴͙̤͕͉͔͊g̵̜̿ ̷̡̗̐̌͑͑͋á̶̪͔̠͕͑͐̄͆͝m̸̰̻̲̳̾̚a̷͕̪̲̪̱͐͑͠z̷͙̼͑i̸̹̬͓͉͕̅̚n̷̡͈̳͙͝ͅg̸̡̛̻̭͇̘̍̈́͒̃̓͒ ̴̰̗̖͈̞͕̎͂m̸̢͔̩̺͈̘͎̅̕͝͝͠y̷̡̼̳̬̤̐͑ ̸̧̼͓̱̗̏͛̊͂͊͛͜d̵̡͚̙̦̼͆̇̔̊e̴̠̗̖͎̮̤͂ą̶̪͇̘̥̼̑̍͋̿̓͂͝r̴̛̬͎̘̐͝.” Aziraphale uttered in gentle Enochian words that grated over Crowley’s senses and left him rubbed even more raw then before.

He let out a whimper as the light of his angel continued to warm the raw edges of him, intensity and gentleness in an equal measure of charged feedback that had him teetering on the edge of some ancient unknowable ending.

Crowley had thought the prickle of it along his skin was unbearable just cradled in the centre of Aziraphale’s form until something seemed to solidify along the curling shadows of the starlight only just daring to flare back into existence inside of him. He jolted a little, squirming in a complicated double helix through the centre of Aziraphale. “ **Oi, that tickles.** ”

Aziraphale let out a sound like the last echoes of a choir crossing each other in the rafters of a church but melded back into something more purely light and eyes once again. “Ö̸͕̳̫͚́̈̐̒̆́͜h̷̤̻̭̪̱̋̚ͅ ̵̹͔͝v̴̧̥̲̥̤͚̞̔̈ę̷̹̻̥͉̜́̚r̸͕͉̩̙̰̗̦̋͊̒͋́͘y̸̢̆ ̷̠͎̈́͊̒͊̃̕w̵̝̝̒ę̶̲͋l̶̛̥͚͊͒̂͗̓l̷̼̭̦̹͎̏̉͛̍̕͜͝.̶̢̟͖̠̌̋̔̒̑͛͠ ̸̫̤̖͉̥̬̄͑̌̋̀S̶̮̖̲̙̎p̷̤̮̆̎̾͝o̵̢̮͇̲̍̅i̴̧̡̼͚̾̑̉͋̕l̵͔̤͈͊͝s̴̨̛̠̻͂̈́̾̑͠͝ͅp̵͍͎̞̪͉̠̻̓o̸̮̯̼̎ŕ̴̛̯̲̼͎̘̃̓̊ͅt̶̗͖̝͕̥̓.̴̣̲̅̒͝”

Crowley nodded in satisfaction and settled back into what he hoped would be a restful evening held in the centre of his bookish angel.


	3. The demon barber of Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Interesting uses for a Flaming Sword_  
>  Crowley has decided to once again try out the goatee. Aziraphale hates it and Crowley is insistent that it's not going anywhere. Aziraphale has a remarkably poor plan for dealing with this involving a flaming zombie.

In the years following the Apocalypse that Most Certainly Did Not Crowley and Aziraphale found an almost comfortable rhythm with each other. It had been tentative at first, still half convinced that further retribution from their old offices could be just around the corner. Time passed, though, and eventually there was a new normal to their lives.

The new normal looked remarkably like the best parts of the old normal strung together into a single sequence rather than in disjointed time-skips.

One of the things that the freedom gave them, however, was free reign to take the things that truly got under the other’s skin and weaponise them into annoyances of magnitudes no human could truly comprehend.

This was why Aziraphale had not made love to Crowley in almost six months. So much worse than breaking out the magic act at a children’s birthday party. Aziraphale stewed in his seat in the bookshop, doing everything in his power to _not_ stare at the goatee that Crowley was once again sporting. Had done despite warnings, pleas, bargains, and eventually blanket bans on getting in his bed.

He knew the demon was itching with the loss of intimacy as much as he did but it had become a stalemate. Crowley _knew_ how much it got under his skin and insisted on keeping it, seeming to think that Aziraphale would break first. Just wanting to prove his damnable point.

Well, Aziraphale was most certainly _not_ about to break first. Aziraphale had a plan.

Currently that plan involved getting them both well and truly drunk, which had not been difficult. The difficult part was remembering that he had a plan. It was remembering not to reach out with aching hands now that his defences were so shaky. Not to let his wily demon win this one.

Currently he was sprawled across the couch in that way that was reminiscent of something of John Singer Sargent’s works; slightly too contorted for a human but terribly alluring regardless. He was trying to tempt the angel, and he was so terribly good at it, but the goatee sat there regardless… mocking him.

Oh, it was awful. Ticklish and irritating in just a small enough space that it _should_ be ignorable but just was not. And it sat there in the middle of the chin just… uselessly. Aziraphale would not stand by this affront to his standards and Crowley _must_ be made to understand that. So he waited. And waited.

Eventually, as it always would, Crowley turned to gentle teasing about Aziraphale’s habits, his wardrobe, how _old fashioned_ he was. How he never tried anything adventurous or new.

The angel was immediately leaning forwards, an eyebrow raising slowly in challenge. “Never try anything new?” He echoed back.

If Crowley was more sober he’d have recognised the challenge for a trap and back-pedalled gloriously. As it was, it was perfectly baited and the demon only nodded with a gleeful grin. “Not until you’re already 100 years out of date.”

Aziraphale stood from his seat and went over to Crowley, hand grazing with just a touch of suggestion over a high table, almost a bar, that had most certainly not been in his shop before. “Never, my dearest? Well, I suppose we should try something interesting, shouldn’t we?”

He watched in satisfaction as Crowley convulsively swallowed at the timbre of his voice and all but scrambled to get up to the bar when Aziraphale slipped behind it. _Trying something interesting_ had been very fruitful for both of them in the past and he was eager to see where this went; hungry eyes following and touched starved body leaning in towards the angel.

He gulped again as Aziraphale primly undid the buttons of his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up before getting out some terribly gauche skull shaped glasses and beginning to pour out measures of rum and syrups. Crowley was entirely too distracted by the flashes of pale inner arm to even bother trying to follow what was happening.

“-paying any attention, dear boy.” Aziraphale’s voice shook him from his reverie, hot breath ghosting across his ear. He let out a low groan at the feel of the heat of him, just barely taking in that the glasses finally full.

“Wosall this bollocks then angel?” He asked, staring at the glasses that were a bit much even for his aesthetic.

“Well, it’s something just a little shy of 100 years old. And I do believe not at all out of fashion.” He finally noticed the playful edge in Aziraphale’s voice.

Too late, as a sword materialised from the aether and pressed close to his throat. Worked up and touch starved as he was he had to fight not to let out a low groan at having _anything_ of Aziraphale’s pressed against him. Even his- _especially_ his sword. He could feel the edge just threatening his flesh and it was alarmingly heady.

Then Aziraphale’s thumb was pressed against his lips and he couldn’t do anything to hold back the groan that slipped out.

Seeming pleased with his work the sword and thumb both retracted at once. Then, the slightest flick of a wrist and white hot light searing into Crowley’s eyes that died just slightly into heavenly flame. Crowley’s throat went dry again even as Aziraphale topped each glass off with a large slice of sugar-soaked lime and pressed the sword against them.

“Flaming like anything.” Crowley found slipping out automatically, dumbfounded, as Aziraphale used his _God given sword,_ which he definitely should not have, to make flaming cocktails for them both. 

His stomach flipped as Aziraphale picked up is own glass and, maintaining eye contact at all times, began to sip at the drink with the flame licking almost up to his eyeballs. It was a clear challenge. It was madness. It was… doing _something_ to Crowley’s heart rate.

Almost without thinking of the dangers of holy fire he picked up his own drink and, equally maintaining eye contact, brought the drink to his own lips to drink. Just as Aziraphale lowered his glass just slightly and licked suggestively at the rim.

Crowley choked. Predictably.

Aziraphale’s sultry look shifted immediately into bastard smugness and triumph.

Crowley had no time to recognise that as alcohol spilt over his jaw and promptly _went up in holy flames_ ; a flash of fire terrifying and leaving him almost screaming until he realised that it wasn’t doing anything to him. As harmless and comfortable as Hellfire, somehow.

“What? I… _What?_ ” The terror had burned some of the alcohol haze away and he finally recognised Aziraphale’s expression for what it was. “What the ever loving Fuck, Aziraphale?” He growled; pupils needle-thin slashes as he glowered at the other.

“I’ve had quite enough of that terrible little thing on your chin and it was about time you gave it up.” He shot back, sipping at his drink. The smugness had settled into something more serious. Something that knew it may have overstepped a mark but couldn’t find it in itself to be truly sorry. Something that was willing to take whatever consequences came of its defiance.

Crowley reached up and touched at his face incredulously. The goatee was the only thing that had been harmed by the fire. Completely burned away.

The serpent of Eden set his gaze, steady and unrelenting, on the angel. The other’s hands tightened around his glass but otherwise didn’t show the true level of the fear underneath. It was, perhaps, a little far after all.

When Crowley pushed back from the bar viciously he tried not to flinch; even as the demon rounded on him. “This means the sex ban is up right?”

Aziraphale’s mouth went lax, blinking uncertainly and finding himself on the back foot as he nodded slowly.

“Right. Bring the sword.” Crowley grunted, grabbing Aziraphale’s drink to slam carelessly on the countertop before taking one of Aziraphale’s hands and dragging him off towards the back room and the staircase. He nodded firmly to himself when he heard the sound of Aziraphale using his other hand to obediently pick up the weapon.

It was going to be a long night. Crowley was going to make sure of it.


	4. How an angel became involved in moving surgery techniques forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week was Cracky Historical Events: What are some bizarre dumpster fire situations they have gotten themselves into?
> 
> For this I chose Robert Liston's famous (and potentially apocryphal) surgery involving a 300% mortality rate and how Crowley may have just egged this sort of practice on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where some of those tags get real important my friends
> 
>  **PLEASE READ**  
>  CW for blood, gore, surgery scenes of a graphic nature and death.
> 
> Feel free to skip over this if it's not your thing. I mean; that's the deal with this whole series but please. This is crack but it does not necessarily make it less distressing in some parts.

“Crowley, you _cannot_ do this! It’s reckless, it’s dangerous, it’s- it’s _unconscionable!_ Even for a demon of your considerable wiles.” Aziraphale worried his hands over themselves; wringing so hard that he might well tear flesh from bone if he were a mortal. There was a surprising amount of honest fear in there and for a moment Crowley took pause, manic grin softening a little.

He reached out, very nearly cupping Aziraphale’s cheek but stopping himself at the last moment and letting his hand fall by his side. “Look, I understand why you hate this angel, but it’s the best they have at the moment. Until your attempts to get them to wash their hands and their Satan blessed knives catch on the only options are the quick and the dead.”

If anything Aziraphale only looked more miserable at this. “Yes, and I’m _apparently_ not supposed to meddle, even knowing what they’re doing to themselves.”

“C’mon angel-” Crowley offered out an arm with one of those tender looks that shouldn’t look so natural on a demon, “you might find someone in there you can inspire to do better for the next generation. Then lunch after, my treat?”

“I hardly feel that I’ll be in the mood for lunch after this spectacle.” Aziraphale complained sourly, but did at the least gently fit his hand into the crook of Crowley’s elbow, feeling a little more grounded for it.

As they passed into London’s University College Hospital Aziraphale tightened his grip reflexively before carefully letting Crowley go. It wasn’t a good idea to be seen together, as much as he wanted him around for what he was about to see. The poor medical students these days… the poor _patients._

Crowley seemed unperturbed and in fact brightened as they passed an office on the way in. He stuck his head through the door to where a rather serious gentleman with even grander mutton chops than Crowley was getting himself into Wellington boots and a surgical coat. “Oi, Bob, good day for it, eh?”

The man looked over to Crowley and his face settled into an almost sneer. “Good enough for my purposes.”

“Good one, remember, if you can beat the two and a half minutes on this one you’re debt free, yeah?” Crowley tipped his hat rakishly even as the man growled at him to get out.

Outside the room Aziraphale looked at him with something between horror and betrayal. “Crowley, you _cannot_ -”

“I did, angel. And he’s a man who doesn’t back down on a wager. We’ll see what happens. Trust me, the faster it gets bad the faster they’ll start trying to work out a better way to do it.”

“I don’t think I want to sit through this...”

Crowley softened once again, and damn the angel for making him such a soft touch. “Well you don’t have to. I could scout for potential trainees for you to give ideas to. Arrangement and all that.” He shrugged nonchalantly even as Aziraphale looked around them, a little spooked.

“I… no. Thank you for the offer but I really ought to be looking myself. They’ll need the spark of inspiration and intelligence in them too. It’s not enough just to want to do good.” Aziraphale sighed. All of these surgeons doing their best and being glorified butchers was proof enough of it.

They got themselves settled into the spectator’s area, watching over the nervous gentleman as he was attended by a couple of assistants.

Barely a few moments later Bob bounded into the room in Wellies splattered with old blood, his smile a challenge to all in the room and especially sharp as it landed on Crowley. “Time me, gentlemen. Time me!”

Aziraphale took in a sharp breath and grasped for Crowley’s hand before he even knew what he was doing. Crowley was almost startled enough by the warm (crushing) pressure of Aziraphale’s hand that he didn’t see the blade come down for the initial incision.

There was a short cry of pain from the table, two assistants moving instantly to hold the patient down as another wrapped a firm tourniquet at the incision; pulling so hard the limb started to go white.

Even as they moved Bob Liston was shoving the blunt side of the now dirtied knife into his mouth and grabbing for the base of the patient’s leg with one hand as the other pulled out a saw, swinging it around with a flourish and driving the jagged teeth into meat with a wet sound and a scream of pain.

Aziraphale’s hand tightened further in his. When he turned to look the angel’s face was quickly draining of colour. As was the elderly man’s next to him.

One of the screams in the room had come from him; clothes torn at the gut where the teeth of the saw had caught him in the doctor’s mad flourish. There was another scream from the table, the crunch of bone, the well of red under the old man’s dress shirt.

“Oh no, God please no.” Aziraphale’s face snapped to look at the older man and started shaking in disbelief.

Crowley finally focussed a little and could sense it too. The terrified flutter of the man’s heart like a desperate bird in a cage, building to hysteria in moments before it stuttered and stopped entirely.

There was a crunch as the saw carved through the first of the bone – 48 seconds from first incision – and the old man who’d been given barely a passing glance of the blade began to slump to the floor as his heart failed him.

Crowley’s hand came up to cover his mouth as his jaw went slack in shock, something like hysteria bubbling in him until he was just short of laughing right there in the operating room. His eyes were still wide and disbelieving as the crack of bone and the patient’s screams were suddenly joined by another shout of pain.

Liston carried on regardless, used to hysterics from the newer of the spectators in the room, completely unaware that it was his poor trapped assistant who had started screaming. Just under the two minute mark the leg came free and Liston batted the leg into the waiting bucket of sawdust, taking two fingers from his now sobbing assistant with it. He started sewing.

Two minutes and 23 seconds after the first incision the deed was done. The man was sewn up minus a leg, the assistant was heaving great wretched sobs and holding onto his arm, two spectators were uselessly attempting to rouse the older gentleman whose heart had completely failed him and Aziraphale was ripping his hand from Crowley’s and all but tripping over his own feet to get out of the building with the demon close behind calling apologies and entreaties.

Aziraphale rounded on him; red and pale warring for prominence on his face as his corporation tried to decide between throwing up his last meal and flying into a rage. “Never again. Do you understand me, Crowley?” He demanded, voice dangerously low and quiet. It was so much worse than shouting would have been. “You are to never again encourage that sort of recklessness in their attempts at practising medicine.”

Crowley swallowed the lump of shame in his throat and removed his hat, holding it at his chest as the smallest of buffers between them. “Yeah, right. That’s fair honestly.” He nodded slowly. “Guess you’re not in the mood for lunch either?”

Aziraphale’s look was murderous and for the first time in millennia Crowley thought the angel may _actually_ smite him. Instead he clenched his fists and stormed away, swearing that he would find **someone** who would listen to the doctors trying to make this better. The efforts would only redouble when he found out that both patient and assistant had died of hospital acquired gangrene. 

Even hundreds of years later Aziraphale would find it hard to watch so-called ‘splatter’ films and medical history shows about surgery.


	5. In defence of the arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week is sentient books/bookshop and the things they have seen.  
> Instead, I provide sentient bookshelves and the things they would _do_ to protect Aziraphale's collection.

There’s an old human saying about what walls would say if they could talk. Mostly, the walls of A.Z. Fell Booksellers are decidedly _not_ the type to gossip. This is somewhat to the chagrin of the bookshelves who revel in gossip and rumours. Even, to the distinct annoyance of the reference section, in outright misinformation just to stir drama.

By the time the Apocalypse most decidedly did not, the shelves had been blessed with a level of sentience for very nearly 200 years and were very nearly as particular and bitchy as the angel whose influence had awakened them. It was with this sort of judgemental attitude that they found themselves one afternoon shifting a first edition of _Interesting narrative of the life of Olaudah Equiano_ over a few shelves every time a potential buyer looked at it because they had _dared_ to walk in and ask if a pocket watch was really something that people wore these days.

It had taken only the briefest look of annoyance on Aziraphale’s face for the shelves to decide to take action and the moment the name of the volume was spoken aloud it became mysteriously unreachable.

The customer had initially thought the book was almost at eye level and had only looked down at their phone to confirm with the buyer that it was the required volume only to find that it was a shelf higher… and resting above the books on its side. They managed to shrug that one off, lifting up on tiptoes to attempt to reach it. When grasping fingers finally touched the edge of the volume there was a slight noise of delight. If book cases could smile smugly this one would have. The book didn’t move a centimetre as the customer’s fingers slipped from their precarious hold.

There was a frown, another unseen self-satisfied grin, and a further stretch until the edges of fingers found safe purchase on a spine. The person pulled. And again. It hadn’t _seemed_ trapped before but somehow seemed completely unwilling to be relinquished from the shelf it was on.

With a grunt of effort the potential customer tugged hard on the volume and found it came away easily, sending him sprawling back onto the floor into a stack of books and the one he had just freed taking a glancing blow at his hip before it bounced off onto the floor.

“Excuse me, I don’t know what way _you_ think is appropriate to treat books, but throwing them onto the floor of my shop is most certainly _not_ acceptable behaviour in here.” Aziraphale appeared from where he had been keeping busy (hiding) from the customer just in time to provide suitable chastisement.

The youngster, though who isn’t young to a 220 year old bookshelf, grimaced and huffily wrapped their hands around the book on the floor, scrambling up. “Look I didn’t- it was stuck. Look, can I buy this book?”

Aziraphale’s disappointment was immediate and if bookcases could make noise this one would all but crow as the customer finally got a look at the book in their hands and found that it was not at all the one that they thought it was when they had finally managed to reach high enough.

“Wait, no. Not this book. I- what? No, the, uh” they checked their phone again, which left the angel raising his eyebrows and tapping his foot in something between parental chastisement and good old fashioned British huffiness “one called the _Interesting narrative of the life of Olaudah Equiano_.”

“Hmm… I’m not sure if I have that book.” The angel offered with a slight shrug.

“I- Well _I_ know you have it. It’s right there!” The customer declared, almost wild eyed now as they looked back at the shelf. Where, of course, no such book sat. “Wait. No, no way.”

There was a shiver of something like mirth from one of the shelves on the Southern compass point as the hapless human tried to make sense of where the volume had gone.

“Well, do call me if you have any luck.” Aziraphale waved them away airily as he disappeared back into the back where a certain demon was enjoying the growing low level of discontent and anger.

Twenty minutes later there was a cry of triumph from the Southern corner of the shop. The angel of the East Gate sighed. But there was no call for him. Instead, more sounds of effort and confusion.

The book had seemed close enough to have a decent go of getting it themself. Or so the customer had so woefully incorrectly surmised. There was even a little stepping stool available which they pulled over to the right place. In the time it took them to move it and step up, the book was on the bookcase next to it. Almost directly where the step stool _had_ been the moment before.

The scowl on the customer’s face was extremely pleasing to an object given sentience by Aziraphale. They decided to chance it anyway, leaning and huffing and stretching out with a white knuckled grip on the shelf in front as they reached out. The shelf gave a little, pulling away from the back and jerking the customer backwards with a sudden rush that had their heart hammering and left them quickly jumping to attention on the step stool.

The slightly strangled sound they made did not draw Aziraphale’s ire this time. After all, it didn’t sound as though there was a book in trouble. After a moment more of silence the customer screwed up their courage and reached out again, this time gripping a slightly higher shelf just as tightly as they leaned outwards. The cheek.

Without ceremony a couple of books just above the customer’s fingers fell from their shelf and directly onto their head, knocking them off the stool quite handily in the process.

“What on _Earth_ is happening back here?” Aziraphale demanded, rounding the edge of the shelf to find a very dazed would-be customer surrounded by books. “I’m afraid that that is for employee use only and you certainly should not be using it when you evidently have not been trained in proper technique.

The customer’s face flushed red and they scrambled up to their feet once more, glowering at Aziraphale. “Forget it, I don’t need this. Shoulda known, someone paying that much to pick up a bloody book. This place is a health and safety nightmare!” They declared, trying their best to straighten up before storming out, Aziraphale’s beatific smile behind them.

“Crowley, you and your demonic influences driving out my customers.” Aziraphale sighed in a theatrically longsuffering way.

From where he stood in the doorway Crowley lowered his sunglasses just enough to smile warmly at the angel over the rims. “You know I would any time you asked. That one wasn’t me though. Bad luck for free, seems like.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked brightly, a warm hand running encouragingly along the wood of the bookcase. “How very lucky for me then. It’s always been such a wonderful little shop and you know how I hate to lose anything from it. Very wonderful indeed.”

If bookcases could talk they would probably gossip. If they could blush, in that moment, they certainly would.


	6. Here cum dat boi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds and interesting way to stop Crowley from finishing too early. Or alternatively, the husbands try out edging but Crowley is not prepared for how Aziraphale prevents him coming.
> 
> The prompt for this week is Aziraphale poorly using slang and/or memes. Please enjoy. Or please be horrified, at the least.

“I wanted to try something out tonight, my dear.” Aziraphale declared, fingers wound deep into Crowley’s hair as they passed a bottle of wine between them, pressed together on the bookshop’s old couch.

“Mmm?” Crowley tiled his heat back. Only a little. Aziraphale’s grip tightened in his hair almost as soon as he started moving, the sting and control of it turning the lazy haze of Crowley’s thoughts sharp in an instant.

“Yes, you may need your safe word for this though. You remember it, yes?”

Crowley felt a very interested shiver go through him; the warmth of the wine nothing in comparison to the warmth that flushed over his skin at those words. “Yeah. Holy Water.” He agreed, only slightly embarrassed that he already sounded a little breathy with anticipation.

Aziraphale only beamed, pleased at the response. “Good, you may need it.” The firmness in his voice was so at odds with the smile that the demon’s stomach flipped. 

Only the slightly hungry look in Aziraphale’s eyes matched the tone and when Aziraphale reached over his chest to slowly unbutton his shirt the demon couldn’t help but find that he was very suddenly a little too hot to be wearing it anyway.

\- - - 

Crowley was absolutely going to discorporate. He gripped the leather of the sofa enough to almost puncture through as Aziraphale slowly worked his mouth along his aching cock. He’d taken his time getting to this point, fingers ghosting along every inch of Crowley’s skin as he revealed it until he was almost begging for it.

At least he had a good idea of what was happening by now. If nothing else, Aziraphale’s soft but determined “Tell me when you get close.” had guaranteed he understood.

And he did. He felt the heat pooling in his gut, the force of his orgasm rising as he thought of Aziraphale swallowing his load down like a particularly delectable treat. “Angel, I’m-”

Immediately Aziraphale pulled off, breath ghosting along the tip of Crowley’s cock. “Oh, worm?” He asked pointedly.

The words were so completely unexpected that all of Crowley’s mental processes shut down for a good second and a half before managing to reboot. “I’m sorry, _what?!_ ”

“Hm? Nothing, dear.” The angel murmured, hiding the smile shifting about his lips by leaning in and licking over the tip of Crowley’s cock, taking the base of it firmly in hand.

The words were immediately forgotten as the demon’s dick swelled again at the attentions. Once again Aziraphale worked him, painfully slowly, to the point of almost-orgasm.

“Shit, shit-shit-I’m-”

Once again Aziraphale pulled away, looking smug as could be as he uttered the words “Oh, your skin must be positively lit right now.”

This time Crowley was slightly more ready for it, eyes snapping open through the haze of his delayed reward to take the other in.

This time, before he could say anything, there were fingers brushing at his entrance and Crowley let loose a ragged moan, horrified at where this was going. And somehow impossibly turned on. Aziraphale was _evil_ and he was going to torture him in the maddest way possible and he was going to make Crowley beg him whilst talking like a fucking twenty-something on Tumblr.

“Oh, yes, Crowley. Still so very tight for me.” For the first time Aziraphale’s voice sounded somewhat affected by this and the demon wondered if this time he might get what he needed. It was enough to make him relax into the touch, cock twitching at the pleasant burn of being opened the human way.

Aziraphale was three fingers deep into him before he pressed against the bundle of nerves that made Crowley almost cry with the need of it; cock achingly hard and begging for release. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to run the risk of being denied yet again. But he couldn’t imagine right now that Aziraphale had any words available to him that could stop the force of his need.

And he had asked for this.

“Please, Aziraphale, I’m gonna come, let me come.”

Aziraphale leaned in and his breath ghosted against Crowley’s cock. He almost wept with relief. “O shit waddup?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the length of him.

Crowley very nearly screamed. “Angel, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you? Why are yo doing this?”

“You have your safe word.” Was the only response his torturer offered up as he licked slowly but determinedly over his shaft as his fingers worked Crowley from inside.

“I wanna be fucking good for you, okay?” Crowley almost spat out. He also wanted to prove that he could take it, though he was less and less certain by the second.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale’s face went all warm and soft though Crowley couldn’t have told, staring up at the ceiling with tears of frustration and boarderline-pain in his eyes. “Yes, you have been so very good for me.”

With a renewed vigour Aziraphale found Crowley’s prostate and pressed against it with every pass of his fingers, his mouth sinking down to take Crowley’s head, tongue lapping hungrily at the weeping slit of it.

This time as Crowley sobbed out that he was close the only response was a low, moaned hum and Aziraphale sinking down until Crowley’s entire shaft was in his mouth.

Crowley all but howled as his vision blurred at the edges, the force of his orgasm both overwhelming and a blessed relief to a being who should not be blessed. He had barely noticed the ringing in his ears and the blur at the edges of the world until he slowly came back to himself and found that he was already in Aziraphale’s arms, cradled and safe despite how sensitive his skin was to the gentle brushes of his over’s fingers.

“You are absolutely the most amazing bae I could hope for, Crowley.” The angel’s tone was gentle and only slightly teasing as Crowley groaned, wondering if Falling wasn’t enough of a punishment in the first place if he was cursed to be in love with this completely infuriating angel.

“I will make you disappear, I swear angel. What the fuck was that?”

The smile against his skin only widened as Aziraphale placed a kiss to his collarbone. “I love you too. We don’t have to do it again but I personally thought it was a very inventive way to both _get with the times_ and try out edging.

Crowley could not argue with the logic of that, only with the terrible practicality of it. But that was a fight for another day, while he wasn’t wrapped up safe and warm in his angel’s arms.


	7. Disorderly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley introduces Aziraphale to video games and the angel does at least give them a go. Unfortunately, his poor organisational skills and thoughtless fidgeting work to drive Crowley up the wall a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt is for living habits that get under each other's skin. Thanks as always to Nothinggoldcanstay for our prompts.
> 
> Please note, there's a reference in here to isolation for Covid-19 and a Pestilence joke. If that's a bit much right now it might be worth giving it a miss until the worst of it's passed.

Crowley was on his knees. And not in the good way, either. Aziraphale was an agent of chaos in the world. Crowley knew this and Crowley (usually) loved it about him. It had been obvious enough in the shop which was always a riot of loose papers, old cocoa cups and stacks upon stacks of book that defied all attempts at logic in their placement.

Crowley had once thought there may be some mad system to it all when he caught a copy of 50 Shades next to a Book of Mormon but had quickly dismissed it when he couldn’t find anything even that red-string in the rest of the sections. 

That was the bookshop, though, and this was their getaway home in the South Downs. So Aziraphale fidgeted and misplaced and worried at the edges of things and Crowley stress-cleaned and organised and generally undid the one-angel whirlwind that was Aziraphale.

For the most part it worked out.

Until now. In which Crowley had found within him the audacity, the pure ego, to introduce his angel bull-headedly to everything in the 21st century until he found something he liked. Temptation accomplished and as always it had come back to bite him in the ass.

“Aziraphale!” He called out, aiming for angry and ending up somewhere in exasperated.

“Yes, darling?” The angel popped his head around the corner, smile as bright and disarming as the endearment.

For a moment the demon forgot how to for words and all that came out was a mangled cluster of consonants. “Look… Where’s Red Dead Redemption?” he eventually sighed, giving up on anything but _hopefully_ finding his game “The Last of us was in the box.” He looked down at the game box in his hands, The Last of Us 2, which had a copy of Minecraft in it. 

A week. He’d spent a week binging Animal Crossing while a Satan damned plague swept through the fucking countryside and in that time it seemed that Aziraphale had tried out every last one of his PS4 games for what struck his fancy and just… put the disk into whichever game he tried out next.

He could feel a headache starting at the edges of his mind and didn’t even have the strength to banish it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale, if anything, brightened more “it’s in Kingdom Come. Thought I’d give it a bit of a sample. Honestly not as historically accurate as it claims to be.”

“What? Red Dead doesn’t- you know what? Never mind.” He huffed, chucking the open box onto the coffee table to remind himself to walk his way back through this mess later.

“Oh, no, no. The kingdom one, supposedly very accurate to the early 15th Century but I really don’t see it. No, I didn’t play that one. Though I did do a download of the first game, I was worried that I might not understand the story otherwise.”

Crowley thought of cannibals and corpse wives and the random side quests he’d wandered off on and shrugged a little as if agreeing. Honestly he couldn’t remember much of the plot. He mostly enjoyed being able to capture and break in a horse without it breaking his neck. Same reason he’s fixated on Breath of the Wild for a little while.

“Quite enthralling despite the fact that it’s rather dark in places.”

“Mmm, and enjoy having guns to help out the moral argument.” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale fidgeted with his cuffs but otherwise just looked a little sad. “Well, it all seemed so cut and dried until that poor sasquatch. Hadn’t even stopped to think about the repercussions of my actions.”

Crowley quickly saw the conversation taking a downturn and scrambled for something else to say. “So, you downloaded that Hallowe’en thing?”

“Oh yes, quite interesting. And I have to admit there was something very vindicating indeed about rounding up the horses of the Apocalypse and putting them to task. Oddly enough I had an absolute devil of a time finding Pestilence though. Slipped away from me. Still, I’m sure I’ll catch it sooner or later.”

Crowley groaned, snatching up the correct wrong box from the shelf to get his own game out. “You and everybody else in the world. Just, could you please put the games back in their own boxes? I don’t have your memory for mystery filing systems.”

Aziraphale only grinned. “Well, I would but you see I do still enjoy thwarting you at times and often enough the best way to do it is simply to keep you occupied.”

Crowley glared back at the angel over the rim of his glasses. “You want to keep me occupied, I can think of better ways, angel.”


	8. Prehensile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week is efforts gone wrong; in which Crowley makes certain presumptions about how a penis should work and is not entirely correct. Aziraphale finds this out whilst attempting to give him a hand job.

The bookshop was pleasantly warm with late-afternoon sun and the angel and demon within were pleasantly warm with wine and each other’s company. That, and the first fluttering realisation of the freedom that they suddenly had to love each other.

The soft words and increased closeness that had begun almost immediately following their trials had, of course, been quite lovely. But they also had the room for some much more intimate acts. Much more than the single cautious kiss goodnight they’d been trading up until this point.

Aziraphale came to this conclusion first. He licked his lips, heat flushing through his skin and into his gut as he thought of all the things that they could do together. All of the things that he could do to his demon.

Aziraphale sucked in a slow breath and very carefully placed his hand on Crowley’s knee, just slightly on the inside where he could tease his fingers along the seam. He noticed Crowley’s soothing prattle about the merits of bees abruptly cut off as he made a choked noise in the back of his throat. 

“Everything okay, my dear?” He smiled disarmingly in response to Crowley’s wide, disbelieving gaze as he shifted, just slightly, turning himself towards the other.

The fact that this dragged his fingers further up Crowley’s inseam and well into thigh territory could of course be entirely incidental. As could the way that Aziraphale’s fingers continued their exploratory petting. What was very obviously not incidental was how hard Aziraphale was working at looking _innocent_ , which he only every tried when he knew he was being a complete bastard.

Crowley swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as he came to the unquestionable conclusion that Aziraphale was doing this, to him, on purpose. He felt the brush of the angel’s fingers move into some decidedly dangerous territory, his pants suddenly a little too tight as he muttered something that aimed for “fine” or “good” or even “yeah, just don’t stop” and instead settled in the vicinity of “ganoop” which wasn’t a word so much as his brain shutting down speech centres.

Aziraphale chuckled, warm and low with the slightest wiggle of satisfaction and groaned at how utterly undone he could be with his bastard angel.

Aziraphale for his part found his breath coming shorter just feeling the imperceptible spread of Crowley’s legs as he begged for more without words; the gentle sound of the demon’s head hitting the back of the couch in time with that _delightful_ sound. He decided very quickly that he was in the mood for more of that sort of sound.

He expended the smallest miracle in opening up Crowley’s pants; not at all convinced that it was safe to touch the zipper with the demon’s cock already starting harden underneath, pushing at the confines.

A pleased shiver went through Aziraphale as he pulled Crowley’s cock free, longer than he was expecting and eliciting a “shit” from the other that was half moan, half sob.

“Don’t worry my dear, I’ll take care of you.” He assured him gently, only more smug when his dick swelled in response against his hand and Crowley helplessly threw an arm over his eyes. Blushing. He had Crowley blushing and stiff in his hand.

Aziraphale let his hand drag slowly up Crowley’s dick, marvelling at how it seemed to grow longer, if anything. As though it didn’t want him to reach the end of that slow, firm drag upwards. The angel could feel his own trousers tighten in response, heart tripping over its own rhythm as he found the head and brushed over the tip, gently coaxing some fluid to spill over and onto his hand.

Once he had enough for a comfortable slide he distractedly undid the buttons of his own trousers for a little relief before beginning to pump Crowley, alternating slow and fast to try and find the perfect rhythm to make the other whine and bite down on his lip until blood welled.

He was still taking his time in working out the best way to please his demon; gentle flicks of his wrists or something a little firmer? Ah, just shy of pain, something to truly feel. He experimented with a squeeze halfway up the shaft and almost screamed when Crowley’s dick curled in on itself and _squeezed back_.

He let out a startled yelp; yanking his hand back with barely the time to let go or disentangle himself as he went.

“Ah, fuck! Aziraphale, what was that?! You almost ripped my knob off.” Crowley’s chest was still red and heaving but his expression was fighting around a wince of pain that had cleared most of the fog of lust from his eyes.

“I- what was- I should be asking _you_ that. Your _penis_ just _grabbed me,_ Crowley.”

If anything the demon dared to look annoyed at him. “Well yeah, prehensile, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale froze at the casual, matter of fact wording of this very wrong thing. “No. It most certainly _is not_ prehensile. _Why_ would it be? What on Earth- How could you even- You must have had experienced them; I know you’ve encouraged the sin of lust often enough in your time.”

Crowley for his part looked a little baffled. More than a little defensive. “Well yeah but I get them to do the thing. Don’t have to sit around and watch the results, do I? They’re human. It’s all a bit messy if you ask me. Look at it though, it’s like a tail. It _should_ be prehensile.”

Aziraphale managed to actually look more affronted than he’d been a second ago. “It most certainly should not. Your dick should not be grabbing anybody back. I can _assure_ you of that fact.”

Crowley scowled, not certain what he wanted to think about Aziraphale’s ‘assurance’, or what it was supposed to mean. He shook off the slight pang that urged him to jump to needless conclusions and leaned in instead. “Alright then smartarse. You show me what it’s supposed to be like.”

“You know, I really don’t know if I’m in the mood f-” but then Crowley’s fingers were stroking along his cock in a very good mirror of Aziraphale’s hands on Crowley’s thighs and he found that he was very much still in the mood to show Crowley how a proper penis should behave whilst being pleasured.


	9. Butterflies and Eskimos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's crack writing time and this week's prompt is heaven/hell HOs get some interesting paperwork about the actions of an angel and a demon. I, of course, feel more strongly for the demonic side. So this is how Crowley got the agreement that he no longer had to send temptation paperwork back to Hell.

Dagon stormed into Beelzebub’s office sans appointment, eyes flashing nearly as dangerously as their scales did. Most demons would tear off a few of their own limbs before even thinking about approaching Beelzebub uninvited. Many of them would only feel worse if they _had_ been invited.

Dagon, for their part, looked as though they hadn’t even considered the rank of the being whose afternoon they’d just interrupted. Usually this would put Beelzebub in the mood for a good slow flaying but they caught a glimpse of the mingled rage and near hysteria in the eyes of the lord of the files and instead dismissed everyone else in the room.

Dagon was so tense that ze thought they might not actually wait until the few underlings were gone. Beelzebub pinned them under the weight of a glare and it almost seemed to relax zir fellow demon, who took in slow, deep breaths until the doors were firmly closed behind them.

“What izz the mean-” Beelzebub saw Dagon’s mouth open to interrupt and a hand shot upwards, wrapping firmly around the taller demon’s throat and squeezing as a warning. “ing of this?”

“You have to stop Crowley from sending his progress reports down here.” They hissed back, needlepoint teeth flashing in defiance now they were finally permitted to speak.

“I _have_ to do nothing. I will, however, lizzzen to why you think I should.” Beelzebub finally relaxed zir grip, chin still tilted upwards with the challenge of daring Dagon to defy zem.

“Well I refuse to read them any longer,” Dagon declared, voice tight with barely restrained hysteria once again “and I’ve lost three clerical demons in as many months. Thrown themselves into the pit.”

Beelzebub buzzed angrily at the fact that they actually dared challenge zir on the matter but admittedly this was beyond the normal levels of petulance and posturing for Hell. Dagon had been running the files since Eden and they had only ever relished in the worst of humanity. If anything, they were one of the few who seemed to take an interest in Crowley’s innovations in tempting.

“How bad could it be?”

This it seemed, was the worst thing to day. Dagon laughed and it was without humour; sharp as their teeth. They snapped to produce a stack of documents with no small amount of satisfaction; as though they had already somehow won.

Despite a mild amount of trepidation Beelzebub was a prince of Hell and not about to let snakeboy and an overgrown piranha cow zem. Ze snatched the notes from Dagon’s hands and started to read. “Tempted an angel to gluttony at the Ritz. Tempted an angel to pride by getting pinned againzzt a bookcase. Tempted an angel to luzzt, three timezzz, once with a swing.”

Beelzebub sighed and rolled zir many eyes. It was far more information than anyone needed about their sex life with the traitor but it was hardly so bad. Ze raised an eyebrow at Dagon for only long enough for the other to gesture impatiently to zem to keep reading.

“Tempted into… eating chocolate out of my arse… into plugging three orificezz and threatening a fourth… into dubiouzz relations with semi-sentient plant-life.” another roll of the eyes Look, this izz all more than anyone needzz to see but well within our usual perverzzion limits.”

“Keep. Reading.” Dagon bit tersely, swaying now between leaning in for a reaction and not wanting to be reminded of the horror they’d suffered.

“Fornication, obscene acts with food, envious thoughts about a car, cuddling-” Beelzebub stopped up short, pulling back the paper and rereading what ze had just read. Cuddling. Specifically _spooning_. For a full night with no sexual contact.

“That’s not Hellish!” Ze protested, holding the paper back as far as it would go.

Dagon glowered. “Oh, I checked. Any act of affection an angel shows a demon is three rungs under blasphemy and therefore counted as a sin. They added it in because the _angel_ was sending up reports about how _good_ he could make a demon act.

Beelzebub’s face went dark at this. Oh, was that the game Heaven wanted to play then? “And what of the rezzt?” Ze bit.

It was… disgusting. It was absolutely unheard of. The detailed specifics of love declarations. Sunset picnics. _POETRY._ Then, something that was so completely impossibly foreign to a demon that ze felt something akin to terror at having to ask its meaning. Ze couldn’t _not_ know though...

Dagon tried to look smug but it was clear that the grey of her normally pallid skin had gone green along the gills. “Yes, that one” she frowned with obvious distaste “we had to look up. Apparently it’s less an actual kiss and more of a… a brushing of the eyelashes against the skin, usually a cheek, in the facsimile of a kiss.”

Beelzebub squirmed, a shudder of something uncomfortably warm sliding down their spine and ze briefly wondered if you could catch anything from contact with something so disgustingly chaste. “Do I even want to know about what an eskimo one is then?” Ze asked, realising that a thing they had passed over without thinking might also be something… like that.

Dagon’s lips pressed into a thin line and they shook their head just slightly. “Better not.”

Beelzebub scowled, taking one more look at the paperwork and hissing a curse to Satan. Ze hated feeling as though ze had been somehow bested but… even a demon couldn’t make their own kind catalogue and file _that_ filth. Ze glowered as the bright pink post-it note summarily stuck itself to Crowley’s ansaphone, proclaiming in glitter ink that would shed everywhere that he was hereby no longer required to send reports to Hell.


End file.
